Strange Fruit
by Dave2380
Summary: There are many tales told in Tamriel, this is but one of them. A tale that bears Strange Fruit indeed, nor is it over yet. M!DB/Others there will be Slash in later chapters, so be warned.
1. Chapter 1

There are many tales told in Tamriel, this is but one of them. Ah, but stories are strange things, almost alive in their own way, for every time a story is told it reaches the ears of someone new. Like a tree it branches out, growing and blossoming until it yields fruit.

SFSFSF

Raen Swiftblade woke up. Not that this was an unusual occurrence, even after assuming the role of Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness. Ruler of the Shivering Isles. Lord of the Mazken. Master of Aureals. Ender of the Greymarch and Vanquisher of Jyggalag, well even after becoming something more than human he still enjoyed a good nights sleep. Especially after popping through the portal to Cyrodiil for a few bottles of wine and a mindless romp with a hot blonde Nord adventurer.

The problem was he woke up as a woman. Which he most definitely was not, so as was his wont when something about his Daedric nature freaked him the fuck out he screamed for Haskill and Dyus. Who promptly appeared in Raen's chambers and goggled at him slightly.

Which was not a wise thing to do, Raen glared at Haskill before opening his mouth. "Not a damned word Haskill, okay, I went out to Bravil for a few drinks, had some very pleasant sex with a Nord, popped back over here and now I wake up as a woman. Now can you tell me why?"

The balding chamberlain smoothed down his tunic and drew in a deep breath. "I cannot be completely certain my lord, but I believe you are suffering the effects of excessive sanity." Raen scowled and looked at Dyus. "Seeing as that explained absolutely nothing to me, could you enlighten me, with more details than our dear friend Haskill provided."

The Imperial nodded, seating himself on the edge of his Masters bed before he spoke. "As Haskill explained, you are sane. Yet you are also the Prince of Madness. Since your ascension to your position you have become something new, not precisely mortal, yet not precisely daedric. On the occasions where you have fallen in battle, you reappear in your throne room, stronger than your last incarnation. You are now as invulnerable to mortal harm as your predecessor was, and as such your daedric nature is of equal strength. You retain aspects of your human nature such as the ability to sleep, yet you are not human. This is the problem my lord. You are trying to live as a human, and a sane human at that. Your mental state is at odds with the powers of madness you command, and the neglected powers are beginning to surface."

He paused and gestured towards Raen's current form, "This is an example, by neglecting your daedric nature, your powers have altered your form, it is of course possible for you to return to the form of your birth, provided you do not mind losing the child you carry, but until you rectify the situation with your daedric nature things like this will happen."

He looked upwards to see Raen and Haskill looking at him with matching looks of incredulity on their faces. After a few minutes Raen looked down at his, no, her stomach in puzzlement. "I am with child? You're telling me that I'm pregnant?"

Dyus blinked a few times, in that creepy, slightly blank way of his before he spoke. "Yes, I do believe I mentioned that, you are carrying a child, well, the start of one anyway. I believe this is why you are in female form."

Those were the last words Dyus spoke before he and Haskill found themselves deposited in the throne room unceremoniously.

SFSFSF

Raen on the other hand had whisked herself to the edge of the Shivering Isles, on the border between Mania and Dementia where she had built the Pavilion of Godawful Squabbling. Well, caused it to be, it wasn't as if she had built any of it. The pavilion was a domed temple fashioned from shimmering silver crystal, furnished with pillows, chairs and divans for the rare occasions when Sheogorath had visitors. Frankly it had been easier to will the pavilion into existence than constantly fight off Mehrunes Dagon and Molag Bal's forces when they tried to get her attention.

The first invasion had been Mehrunes Dagon trying to gain some revenge for thwarting the his entrance into Tamriel. Raen had sorted out that little incident by telling Mehrune if he wanted his Razor back, he could take his army of Dremora and go home or she would Wabbajack them all into cheesecake. He wisely withdrew. Next up was Molag Bal, who was whining about how he needed his Mace back and he wanted it now or he'd burn Passwall to the ground. Raen handed back the mace, but only after Wabbajacking his army into cheesecake and eating every last one of them. Funnily enough Molag Bal seemed to flinch in the proximity of cheesecakes now.

Eventually Raen just sent emissaries to the other Daedric Princes informing them that anyone who wanted their artefacts back could come to the Isles and claim them and incidentally if they wanted to stay for a drink they were more than welcome.

Hence the Pavilion. Raen was going to call it the Pavilion of Communication, but after Peryite, Sanguine, Boethiah, and Mephala all turned up on the same day and spent that day yelling at each other, it was renamed the Pavilion of Godawful arguments.

It was also where Raen asked for audiences with her fellow Daedra, occasional visits from the Night Mother and Sithis and a few visits from Martin who visited to take tea on occasion and Talos who'd drop by for a gallon of mead or two.

It was also an excellent hiding spot since it was out of bounds for any of her subjects. Unfortunately Azura was not one of her subjects and after Raen's third week in the Pavilion she was paid a visit by the Daedric Prince of Dawn and Dusk. Damn Haskill and Dyus for interfering!

"This is most unlike you Sheogorath." Azura smiled softly as she took a seat beside Raen. "I would not have thought that such a small thing could unnerve the Champion of Cyrodiil. The last Archmage of the Arcane University would have laughed this off, so too, would the Grey Fox and the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, and the Lord of Battlehorn Keep." The Prince smiled, her eyes twinkling in her Chimer form.

Raen stuck out his tongue and continued listing titles, "You forgot the Master of Frostcrag Spire, Lord of Deepscorn Hollow, Master of the Fighters Guild of Cyrodiil, Knight of the Thorn and of course the Divine Crusader of the Knights of the Nine. But you are missing a valid point my friend, I was still me when I was doing all that stuff. It kept me busy after the Oblivion crisis and kept me away from the Elder Council in case they were dumb enough to try and make me Emperor."

She gestured at her form, "I wasn't stuck as a woman for nine months, I was me and I only had to worry about myself. Now, well now I'm carrying a child, stuck as a woman for the next eight months and I have to make sure Molag and Mehrune don't find this out, because those two bastards would love to bring me down a peg by stealing my child and eating it or something along those lines. And assuming I keep this secret, what do I do with a child? I'm a Daedric Prince and the child is mortal, I can tell that much. Do I keep a mortal child and watch it die or do I try to make it like me and create a monster by accident? I've heard about some of Molag's children. I won't kill the child by resuming my own form and I'm terrified to do anything to it in case I birth an abomination."

She sighed and slumped backwards, "Do you have any advice, do you see anything in the Twilight?" Raen turned her head towards Azura to see her friend regarding her with sympathy. "Not at present my friend. As for advice, the children we bear are only monstrous if we will it. My son Alandro is immortal but no monster. Your decision not to tamper with the child is wise. Such things can wait, should you change your mind. As for Mehrune and Molag, they shall hear nothing of this. I shall obscure the knowledge of your condition with the power of the Twilight. I would not wish the attentions of those two upon anything. Consider this my birthing gift to your babe."

The Queen of Dawn and Dusk laid a chaste kiss upon her friends brow before shimmering out of existence in a blur of melting colour and a swirl of perfume.

SFSFSF

Following Azura's visit, Raen summoned her interfering servants and stopped hiding. True to her word, no one heard anything about Raen's condition without instantly having the knowledge fade from their head, and if Sheogorath called on more of his Aureals and Mazken to guard New Sheoth, then no one commented on it.

There was a rash of mysterious incidents all over Nirn over the next few months. For one particularly memorable week every sweet roll in Valenwood would vanish as soon as they left the oven. In Elsweyr there were mysterious showers of roasted chickens. The hardy souls of Morrowind found life a lot more interesting when a city sized cache of wine bottles appeared one night in the ruins of Balmora. And in Cyrodiil on a farm south of Bravil one poor soul became obsessed with pickling cucumbers and burying jars of them in the ground to ferment only for the jars to vanish when the pickling process was complete.

SFSFSF

Haskill and Dyus viewed the process of Raen's pregnancy with their usual implacable patience for the first three months, that is until sweet rolls began popping into existence in the throne room. This was nothing new, one of the perks of being Sheogorath was being able to conjure food from thin air, after the third hour of watching warm sweet rolls fall out of thin air they began to think something was amiss, after the second day when their lord glared at them and growled they prudently decided to back off and hope that the sweet roll overdose wouldn't last long. At the end of the week they were in hiding from Sheogorath who was on the mother of all sugar rushes and transfiguring all the iron in Atmora to gold, especially during fights between warriors. The warriors soon learned that nothing with iron could be trusted as a weapon, at least those of them that hadn't dragged their suddenly much more valuable armour to a smelter and made a small fortune off of it.

By month five the smell of roasted chicken made Raen nauseous and so she banned all roasted chicken from the Isles, which was particularly disheartening to the Zealots who practically lived on the stuff, no sooner did they roast their chicken to perfection than poof, it vanished, only to reappear in Elsweyr. The Khajiit referred to it as the Month of Falling Food and had three days of national mourning after it stopped.

In month seven of the pregnancy Idris Ralen, a scavenger in the ruins of Balmora set up camp on the exposed roof of a house and went to sleep, to begin looting the ruins of any valuables that hadn't made it out of the city when he awoke. He awoke the next morning with a small mountain of wine bottles at his side, full bottles at that. Being fond of the odd drink himself he opened one and began drinking, his fellow scavengers, drawn by the glint of sunlight on glass joined him and there followed a drunken orgy of such exuberance that Sanguine would have approved, had not one of the exceptionally drunk revellers not toppled the small mountain of bottles and caused them all to be buried in a landslide of shattering bottles, wine and their fellow revellers.

The eighth month was named the Month of the Gherkin in New Sheoth, as jar after jar of freshly pickled cucumbers appeared in the courtyard of the Palace and annoyed flesh atronachs had to carry them to their hormonal, crazed and heavily pregnant monarch. By this point Haskill had developed a nervous tic in his left eyelid and Dyus was refusing to come near the Palace because Raen had banished him until he learned "Not to be such a creepy fatalistic bastard all the time." and then burst into tears and hugged him for five hours solid. The commentary on his lack of social skills was one thing, but being half drowned by the tears of a crazy god was quite another.

SFSFSF

If the pregnancy had been trying, then harrowing was the only way to describe the labour. Raen cursed like a hellcat in her chambers whilst the city was ravaged by showers of rainbow crystal and blue flame. The very sea surrounding the isles formed into golems that began a pilgrimage around the city singing the text of "Yngal and the sea ghosts." in a dour choral chant that drove the Manic residents of the city to despair and drove the Demented to cheer. All of the amber in New Sheoth transmuted itself into shimmering orbs of silver light that passed through walls and traced dirty limericks on the walls in ancient Dwemeris script.

Meanwhile Raen cursed and screamed and pushed until her son finally emerged, the attending Mazken and Aureals cut the cord and cleaned the child off respectively before wrapping him securely and placing him in his mothers arms. When the child was placed in Raen's arms she smiled and laughed at the little pink bundle of joy.

"Well now, didn't you take your time getting here." Midway through the sentence Raen's voice cracked and broke as he regained his old form, with a flicker of concentration he shimmered back into a woman then back into himself. Nodding contentedly he gazed at his son.

The captain of the Mazken, Enra and her counterpart Dirae shuffled closer to gain a better view of the child. Enra in particular seemed fascinated by the boys pink skin. "Have you considered a name yet Master?"

"I was thinking of calling him Dane, it was my grandfathers name. It's pleasant enough and should serve him well. Yes, Dane Swiftblade, welcome to the world my son." He yawned and idly waved the Mazken and Aureals away before magicking his birthing bed clean and conjuring new linens. Situating himself comfortably and gathering his son close he drifted off to sleep, whilst the chaos outside New Sheoth dissipated slowly.

SFSFSF

Haskill looked at the basket with a certain amount of distaste, the only visible sign of his distress was his recently acquired nervous tic. "Are you entirely sure about this my lord? Would he not be safer here than in Mundus?"

Raen shook his head slowly his gaze dark and pained, voice rough and rasping as if hoarse from weeping, "No, no I don't think he would Haskill. What kind of parent would have his children grow up surrounded by crazy people, and worse, what if word should spread? Do you think Molag Bal or Mehrunes Dagon could resist the chance to wound me through a child of mine? There are no children in the isles either Haskill, who would he play with? No, it pains me to do this, but in Mundus he will be just another child, if I kept him here he would stand out and be a target. I do not send him away lightly, nor do I send him unprotected, I have woven a spell about him that will ward him from malicious intent until he comes of age, and Dirae has agreed to be bound into the form of a ring. Should anyone attempt to harm him she will manifest and destroy them."

Haskill sighed, "As you will it, so shall it be."

Raen stood, "He is my son Haskill, by the time he's grown he'll have magicka enough to defeat anyone short of a Daedric prince and probably his fathers skill with a blade. Combat is in a Nords blood you know. Now deliver him safely to the Chapel of Dibella in Anvil. The Nine owe me a few favours, he'll be as safe there as anywhere else."

Haskill bowed stiffly and disapprovingly before vanishing in a sphere of ebon and purple energy. Dyus watched his master from across the throne room, watching as he settled on his throne, as he let out a great breath and blurred from his brunette Breton form into the form of Sheogorath. Dyus looked at Raen as he allowed his daedric powers to surface, and Sheogorath looked back at Dyus.

SFSFSF

There are many tales in Tamriel, tales of the last Archmage of the Arcane University, who sealed the doors shut and whisked the last of the Mages guild to the seclusion of Frostcrag Spire when the Empire tried to dissolve the guild in it's entirety.

Tales of a Divine Crusader who was once an Arena Grand champion, who slew the immortal Umaril the Unfeathered.

Tales of an assassin who served the Dark Brotherhood as their Listener, who could walk past an army of soldiers to kill their commander in plain sight and still not be seen.

Tales of a thief so skilled he stole an Elder scroll to become the Grey Fox.

Tales of a Champion who rose from nowhere to aid the last of the Septims and vanished from history.

Tales of a mortal who became the Champion of a Daedric Prince, who ascended to his position and replaced him, who freed the Lost Daedric Lord Jyggalag from the curse of Madness.

There are many tales in Tamriel and one of the most chilling is the tale of the Madgod when his sanity returns, when his mind is lucid and he screams in loss and regret, for giving up the son he bore to keep him safe. A bitter tale of sacrifice and madness and longing for the one thing he can never have without destroying it.

This is a tale told only in Tamriel and never spoken of by the worshippers of the Madgod. Only once was the subject raised in front of him, and he who spoke the words will burn forevermore as a human torch atop the Palace of Sheogorath.

Aye for this is a tale that yields strange fruit indeed, nor is it over yet.


	2. Foundling

The thing is, the key thing, is dragons are big, and destructive and did he mention pant-wettingly terrifying? Dane Swiftblade was really glad that there had been a set of armour inside the fort at Helgen, because he sure as hell wasn't expecting a dragon to glare malevolently down from a tower and then incinerate a town around him.

Not that he wasn't grateful for being saved from the headsman's block, but honestly, seeing a creature straight out of myth swooping down on you is more than enough to make you widdle yourself. The ensuing trek throughout the fort and cave with that damned Imperial had done nothing for his mood, especially considering the Imperials were going to summarily kill him just for crossing the border.

He was beginning to wish that he'd started looking for his family in High Rock rather than Skyrim….

SFSFSF

It's always been there, a sort of hole in his heart, well maybe not his heart, per se, but there's this absence inside of him that comes from not knowing who he is. He doesn't exactly blame his mother for leaving him at the Chapel of Dibella, even eight years after the Great War times were harsh. Better to give a child to the Divines if you can't provide for them, better that they have some chance at life.

But, well, leaving your son in a basket with a note and a ring. It seemed a little cold, and leaves you with that empty feeling inside.

Then there's growing up in the Chapel of Dibella. Which really wasn't a bad place to grow up, there are worse places to live than in the Goddess of beauty's home. You certainly gained an appreciation for beauty and good food. The priests and priestesses weren't exactly harsh task drivers for most things, unless you messed up their Strawberry Torte and then Sister Cecille would give you the glare of doom.

Not forgetting the instruction in the erotic arts when you came of age, there were some really interesting memories of that year, but…

But it still wasn't enough to fill that void, to answer the question that niggles at the back of his mind, that has him staring for hours at a simple gold ring or obsessively re-reading a worn parchment.

"_The child's name is Dane Swiftblade, his father was a Nord, his mother was a Breton. Take care of the boy for I cannot."_

_SFSFSF_

_When Dane had asked about weapons training as a child he had thought that Sister Cecille would have been against it, after all, what could be less beautiful than fighting? Her laughter that day was long and loud and joyous. "Some of our brothers and sisters may believe that, but I disagree. A sword can be beautiful, so too the armour of a warrior can be beautiful, and the grace of a warrior in battle is beautiful too. Combat itself may be ugly but the implements can be things of beauty. In any case, these are trying and dangerous times and everyone should have some knowledge of weapons."_

_It wasn't a view shared by many of the other priests, but Sister Cecille was somewhat eclectic in her interests, which certainly came in handy when Dane's interests diverged from what the other priests thought were appropriate for a lay-brother of Dibella. Because of course it was assumed that as a ward of the chapel he would naturally take vows to Dibella when he was eighteen, never mind that no one asked him if he wanted to or not._

_It was after yet another pointless argument with Brother Theodor and Sister Ysanne that Cecille found him at the Wayshrine of Mara just outside of town, which wouldn't have been quite as awkward if he wasn't venting to a flame atronach about pig headed Priests of Dibella needing a good hard kick to the rear._

"_Well I won't say I'm not tempted to do such a thing on a daily basis, but I generally resist the impulse." Cecille laughed, partly at the shock on her wards face and partly at the surreality of seeing a flame atronach dancing around a shrine of the divines and executing graceful whirls and loops in midair. "I didn't know you could summon an atronach. That's rather impressive given that you are only seventeen. If the mages guild was still in existence then they would be glad of such talent." Cecille dusted off the rim of the Wayshrine before taking a seat. "I take it that Theodor was not impressed with your magical proclivities."_

_Dane snorted derisively as he watched his atronach perform a graceful loop. "He thinks summoning a flame atronach is going to damn my soul to Oblivion forever, and then there's Ysanne who thinks anything other than restoration magic should be banned on general principles. They think it's obvious that I'm just going to become a full priest of Dibella. That I should just stick to making jewellery and spreading our teachings in praise of Her. It's not that I don't love the Divine but…" He shrugged and his speech tailed off, just as his atronach faded back into Oblivion._

_Cecille nodded, "Not everyone is meant for the life of a Priest. Theodor and Ysanne find it fulfilling and it is entirely possible that they have no conception of a life outside of the Chapel's walls, let alone outside of Anvil. I think that we both know that you seek more from life than we can offer. For what it's worth Dane, I believe you should go." Cecille sighed as she rose from the Wayshrine, muttering a brief prayer to Mara before she turned back to her charge. "You may want to consider going to the College of Winterhold if you find yourself in Skyrim. In the absence of a true Mages guild it would be the best option should you seek more training in magic."_

_Her words stayed with him, long after she was gone and twilight drew near._

_SFSFSF_

_So yes, he decided to leave the Chapel of Dibella when his eighteenth birthday had passed, Theodor and Ysanne did not approve but wished him well, even presenting him with a set of steel armour and a sword, both of which were rather shoddily made but better than nothing. Cecille adopted a more practical approach with his gift, a coin purse of one hundred Septims and a small satchel full of potions._

_Leaving the chapel should have been harder, it should have been a wrench leaving his home, but oddly enough he felt only a little regret. The possibility of finding any blood kin set his blood afire and he began his journey._

_Things went well enough as he travelled through Cyrodiil, passing through Kvatch and Skingrad before heading to the Imperial City to pray at the Dragon statue in the Temple of the One. The Thalmor may not have been happy about having the statue in the city, but their attempts to remove the statue had failed repeatedly. Dane was pretty sure it was a symbol of Akatosh and the other Divine's disapproval of the White Gold Concordat. It always seemed like a pointless law anyway, what was the harm in worshipping Talos anyway, besides pissing off a god of any stripe was a bad idea. Just look at what Azura did to the Dunmer's ancestors._

_Things were rather less peaceful on the way north, Wolves and Bears seemed to think that the best course of action would be to attack and try to eat Dane. After the third unsuccessful attempt he decided that it was a lot easier to summon a flame atronach and let her lob fireballs at anything furry that decided he might make a good snack._

_Of course having a flame atronach trailing after you like a puppy tends to make people nervous and he had a rather tense encounter with the guards at Bruma who insisted that he dismiss his pet before entering. He got some rather strange looks whilst he was in the town, but after restocking on health potions and having a very good nights sleep he resumed his journey and crossed the border._

_Which was when things went to hell._

_SFSFSF_

_It was really an accident, stumbling into that fight between the Imperial Legion and their opponents, who he would later learn were the Stormcloaks. But really, when someone slashes at you with a sword, of course you're going to block it and maybe let loose a blast of frostbite in their face. It was just Dane's misfortune that it was an Imperial that decided to attack him. So all the rest of the Imperials decided he was one of the Stormcloaks and of course when the Imperials won, he was bound along with the other prisoners._

_Which of course led him to Helgen, the almost execution, the rampaging Dragon and a rather frantic dash through a fort collapsing behind him and a sympathetic Imperial called Hadvar who led him to the sleepy town of Riverwood._

_The first thing he did was book a room in the inn, order six bottles of mead and drink himself into a hazy stupor. Bloody Skyrim, this wouldn't have happened if he'd gone to High Rock instead…._


	3. Lost

There are constants in life when you are a Daedra.

Loyalty, you are loyal to your Master. It matters not if you are summoned to Mundus by some mortal, if your master summons you then his call supersedes all others. Azura has her Winged Twilights. Boethiah has the Hunger. Sheogorath has the Aureals and the Mazken. Of all his servants the Aureals are the most loyal, for they owe fealty to the Madgod and only him, not like the treacherous Mazken who serve others. Let the Dark Seducer bitches claim fealty, the Aureals are Sheogorath's true chosen.

Duty, you obey your master's every command, no matter how insane, even if he orders you to spill your blood in a fit of boredom, or feed the wolves in Mundus with gold or gems to confuse adventurers. So when the Madgod asks his Aureal captain Dirae to seek a volunteer to guard his son in Mundus, she volunteers. It is instinctive, it is her only thought to please the Madgod, and what higher cause is there than looking after his son?

There is pain as her essence is reshaped, condensed and reformed into a plain unadorned gold ring, but pain is to be borne. She is bound by oath and magic to manifest and slay those who would harm her Liege's son. She bears the duty proudly, she will wait and she will perform her purpose, firm in her resolve.

SFSFSF

Haskill brings the boy to Mundus, to the Chapel of Dibella in Anvil, where the Priests and Priestesses will care for him as they would any foundling, where he will spend the next eighteen years until he repays their obligation. Mortal customs are foolish but at least the boy will be safe.

Dirae feels the scrutiny of Dibella upon her, the Aedra can sense her nature but dare not interfere with an artefact bearing the magicks of the Madgod himself, not for fear that it will draw his attention and the Madgod truly lives up to his name. There are tales of curses, that all one touches will turn to cheese, or be haunted by spectral grapefruits wailing funeral dirges. Such madness has not been seen in Tamriel since the beginning of the fourth age and many wonder why the Madgod has become madder than usual.

Dirae could tell them, the Nine, never Eight, no matter what those Thalmor fools may think, could talk to her, even in this form she could communicate with the Divines, but she will not bring the boy to their attention, let him just be a foundling with a ring. Anonymity can be a most excellent shield.

SFSFSF

Time passes and the boy grows, he trains in weapons, first in daggers then in swords and Dirae is proud, the boy has the bright and shining soul of an Aureal. Her flare of pride is sensed by the Divine but she will not talk to the Aedra, for it serves no purpose, not whilst the boy is safe, his fathers magic protecting him. Not that he needs it in the Chapel.

The boy grows strong, tall and broad, his fathers Nord blood making itself evident in his body, whilst his fathers mortal Breton nature is evident in the way the boy soaks up learning, the way he grasps fire magic instinctively and can summon a flame atronach at sixteen. Sometimes when the boy stares at her for hours on end, wondering where he came from, sometimes she wonders if he sees a simple ring or if he can discern the truth of her?

Oh yes, he's mortal, but surely something of his fathers essence is in him, or would that be mothers essence, how much does he see? If she spoke to the Divine when her gaze was on Dirae's form then would the boy hear her?

Such a thought is tempting, but she pays it little heed until the boy is seventeen and arguing with the tiresome Theodor and annoying Ysanne, he storms off as they berate him for dabbling in magic unbecoming of a Priest of Dibella. As if the boy would join them, hah, the Madgod's son join the Priests of Dibella? Not likely.

He's at the Wayshrine of Mara outside of Anvil when she tries to whisper to him that he should not worry, but finds herself unable to speak to him. Mara's presence flickers in the Wayshrine but she cannot speak to that Divine either.

She is helpless, so tightly bound is her geas to protect the boy that she cannot speak, cannot transform unless he is in danger. For the first time in centuries she feels a trickle of unease, fear that she may be too tightly bound to aid him against a threat. What danger releases the geas? Will a wolf attack do it, or must it be significant.

She obsesses over the issue whilst the priestess converses with him, worrying. It is a new sensation, and she finds she does not care for it.

Perversely, time seems to slow to a crawl as she waits for Dane's eighteenth birthday, when he can leave the Chapel and stop making their ridiculous amulets and stop preaching about the pursuit of beauty. When he can travel and she can fulfil her duty. She wishes no danger on the boy, but it would be nice to exist in her true form rather than on the boy's finger.

Not that it's been entirely unpleasant, the things she has seen in the Chapel of Dibella, the rumours of their instruction in the erotic arts have proven more than accurate. Not that Daedra concern themselves with sex to that degree, but still it was highly informative.

SFSFSF

When Dane turns eighteen he can no longer be called a boy by any standard, he is tall and broad, with warm brown eyes and blonde hair that could rival the skin of an Aureal for it's colour. His body is well muscled without being excessively so and he has helped instruct many in the arts of love, man and woman both.

He is proficient with a blade if a little rough with his techniques and favours the flame spell in his off hand to distract a foe. Not discounting his skill at summoning Ember. Sometimes Dirae wonders if he knows that he is summoning the same atronach over and over, if he knows that she would fight her own kin to stand beside him even if he wasn't summoning her specifically. Would he understand the depths of such loyalty, would he appreciate it?

She thinks he would, he seems to be a creature of loyalties.

SFSFSF

The journey to Skyrim is painfully dull for the most part, she finds most humans are just as dull as the ones they encountered in Anvil. Kvatch and Skingrad have little to recommend them, the Imperial city is interesting, with the lingering residue of hundreds of thousands of spells, traces from the Arcane University, a whisper of lingering power from Mehrunes Dagon, barely detectable to a human but still there, but it's the statue in the Temple of the One that steals her breath.

The petrified remains of the Avatar of Akatosh, the transfigured body of the last Septim himself. The linchpin holding shut the gates of Oblivion forever. She wonders how these mortals can walk past it daily without their eyes boiling in the sockets. The statue radiates Aedric energies and all she can think is _Run, Run, Run. She feels as if she should be melting under this onslaught before Dane leaves and the energies fade, to the point where she no longer feels molten and white-hot._

_SFSFSF_

_She has never felt a rage quite like this, it fills her up and makes her want to shriek in impotent anger. Aye, impotent and there's the rub, for she is powerless. Unable to do anything as the wolf hurled itself at Dane, at her charge, unable to take her true form and skewer the beast, forced to watch as he stabbed the beast in one fluid movement. As it's blood gushed and steamed on the road to Bruma._

_The geas is restrictive, binding and a wolf is not enough to break it. Worse than all of this is the fact that Dane summons Ember constantly now, so even if there was a threat, Ember immolates it before it can get near Dane. Dirae has never known so many feelings at once, jealousy of ember for doing her job, rage at her helplessness, guilt that she wishes danger upon the one she is supposed to protect, and helplessness itself._

_How can anything endure so many thoughts at once without going completely mad?_

_SFSFSF_

_She has failed her task._

_Now and forever she has failed, a skirmish on the Skyrim side of the border has claimed Dane, and worst of all they took her from him. The geas still binds her, stronger than a thousand chains and she screams for her master, hoping in vain that he will hear her, that he will loosen the geas so she can save his son, because they have taken her from him, they have bound her charge and stripped him of arms and armour and gagged him._

_And the cart has stopped._

_The mortals are reading names off a list._

_She feels a surge of hope when Dane's name is not on the list before the mortal woman orders his death._

_If fury were flame then Skyrim would be molten under Dirae's rage._

_They are going to kill her Master, the son of the Madgod, her charge and if only he was wearing her she could save him, but he isn't and she can't._

_Her screams echo inside her head as he kneels before the chopping block, only to be joined by another shriek and the sound of wings, monstrous leather wings that let the dragon drop onto the tower of the fort and rain death and destruction around it. The last thing she sees clearly before the cart she's in is blown into the air by the dragons flame breath, is Dane running for a tower._

_It is her last sight of him before the wreckage of the wagon settles over him and all is darkness and noise._

_She has failed._

_She is lost._

_SFSFSF_

_Her purpose is gone. She has failed and retreats inside herself. There is no point to anything now, Dane is gone, if not dead then escaped, lost to her certainly. There is little possibility he will return to look for her. _

_She has failed and will spend however long it takes trapped in this form until she fades from Mundus back to the Wellspring at Brellach by which time Dane will be long dead and she will gladly turn herself over to the Madgod for an eternity of punishment, for failing him._

_She lies in the dirt of Skyrim, covered with the wreckage of a wagon and waits,_

_It's all she has left now._


	4. Setting out

The first thing that Dane did when he woke up in the Sleeping Giant was freak out, well actually the first thing he did was wince as the sunlight hit him like a hammer blow to the head. The second thing he did was freak out as he remembered just how close he had come to death the day before, not just with the whole jerk-imperials-would-have-killed-me-just-for-fun, but also avoiding having his ass burnt to ashes by a dragon and homicidal Stormcloaks attacking him just because he's wearing Imperial armour.

One day in Skyrim and he was thanking his lucky stars that he was blonde and any grey hairs he gathered wouldn't be too noticeable. Miserable and hungover, he walked slowly from his room to the inn's common room and slumped against the bar, much to the bartenders amusement.

"Over-did it a little did we lad?" He chuckled, dark eyes sparkling with mirth.

"I should have remembered not to drink on an empty stomach, but surviving a dragon attack is enough to make anyone a little crazy." He shuddered at the memory, as the Nord paled at his words.

"It's true then?" He murmured, hands trembling as he opened a bottle of mead and sloshed half of it's contents into a tankard, cursing as he almost spilled it. Dane accepted the tankard gratefully. "Aye, I made it out with an Imperial called Hadvar but I don't know how many others made it out of there." He drank deeply of his mead, ignoring the way his stomach protested and just letting the warmth of the alcohol soothe him.

"So, what do you have for eating then?" He asked the shaken bartender, who pulled himself together and began rattling off the inn's fare.

It turned out that Orgnar wasn't a bad cook, and after three bowls of his Venison stew Dane felt more like himself. He was hangover free, well fed and safe for the moment. Unfortunately asking Orgnar if he knew anyone who shared the name Swiftblade, resulted in a shake of the head. "It sounds like a fine name lad, but no one round here carries it. Riverwood is a town of farmers, a name like that betokens a warrior. But don't lose heart lad, if anyone might know of such a family it would be the companions of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun."

It wasn't as if Dane had thought he'd be successful on his first attempt, but it was disheartening nonetheless. At least he had something to follow up on. He paid for his breakfast, slipped Orgnar a few septims and headed out into the fresh air of Riverwood, pondering his next move.

He was going to need coin, and getting rid of this Imperial armour would be a good move, he'd feel much better with something a lot less flimsy. A good set of steel armour and a better sword than the iron monstrosity he was stuck with would improve his temper immeasurably.

The smith, Alvor was a bearded blond, who nodded approvingly as Dane cast a critical eye over his wares and sold all the Stormcloak weapons he had amassed. One set of steel armour and a matching sword of superior quality and Dane felt much more like himself. "You've an eye for quality lad, are you sure you're not a smith yourself?"

Dane looked up from the bench he was sitting on whilst he finished buckling himself into his armour. "I made jewellery for the Chapel of Dibella while they raised me. I suppose I'm technically a whitesmith, and I know how to use a grindstone, but that's about it." He shrugged, rolling his shoulders to get accustomed to his armours weight and fit.

Alvor nodded approvingly, "Not much call for jewellery these days, why spend gold on a fancy ring when you can use it to buy a blade to protect yourself. But if you can work with gold and silver I can teach you the basics, it's never a bad idea to be able to look after your weapons and reinforce your armour."

Dane considered it and nodded. Which was how he spent the rest of the day learning how to forge his own daggers and reinforce his armour. It was taxing work and he was a hot sweating mess by the end of it, but he managed to produce an iron dagger with a wicked edge to rival the steel of his sword, and with Alvors help he had managed to reinforce his armour. Returning to the inn that night he collapsed onto his bed and was asleep when his head hit the straw stuffed pillow.

After breakfast the next morning Alvor told him his armour was cooled and he could pick it up when he wished. Which meant he really had no excuse to linger in Riverwood. He picked up his armour and with some help from Alvor managed to buckle himself into it.

"Now lad, can I ask you a favour?" The smith asked, face grim. "Of course Alvor, you helped me out, of course you can ask me a favour." Dane assented, only too pleased to help a friend. The smith relaxed, the tension leaving his body. "This news of dragons is disturbing and Riverwood has little in the way of defence, I ask that you travel to Whiterun and tell the Jarl what you saw at Helgen and ask if he can send some guards to Riverwood. "

Dane nodded, "I was heading to Whiterun anyway, I'll let the Jarl know what I saw and ask for your guards. You have my thanks for all your assistance Alvor." The smith nodded, the barest hint of a grin on his face. "Aye, well lad, when the war ends perhaps you can come back and show me how to make your fancy jewellery." Dane laughed, "I don't think you'll have any trouble picking it up Alvor. Farewell my friend." He patted Alvor on the shoulder, before turning and leaving the forge.

The Riverwood trader didn't have much in the way of stock when Dane had inspected it, and if that hadn't been enough to dissuade Dane from lingering then the fight between the two Imperials in the shop was more than enough to. Besides it's not as if Whiterun was that far, he had enough bread and mead to get him to the city, and he could probably get his flame atronach to bring down a deer with a Fireball if he was wrong.

Of course he waited until he was outside of town to summon her. It wouldn't do to have the guards panic and riddle him with arrows after all. The familiar words ran off his tongue like liquid, rippling in the air as it shimmered with the purple laced ebon energies of the conjuration spell. Dane had always been slightly puzzled at how easy it was to conjure a flame atronach, from what he had read in some of the Chapel's books he had expected them to attack him or try to break the summoning bond.

The lack of aggression and the often playful nature of his fire atronach had often caused him to wonder if he was actually summoning different atronachs or if he was calling the same one over and over. Of course since there was no longer a mages guild it was all theoretical and he could only speculate on such things, at least until he had the time to journey to the College of Winterhold.

Absently he looked down at his gauntleted fist and sighed as the loss of his ring hit him again. It had been a dull ache in his chest when he realised that when the Imperials had captured him he was robbed of the only two links he had to his parents. Some would have called him a fool for mourning the loss of a ratty parchment and a plain gold ring, but it still made the empty feeling inside him ache. The knowledge that he now had no link to his parents other than a name was a pain unlike any other.

He was grateful that the bandits tried to attack him, it snapped him out of his reverie and the action of combat certainly made him feel better. It was bad news for the bandits, one of whom took a fireball from the atronach in the face and the other who looked particularly dumbstruck as Dane's blade lopped his head off.

"Good work Ember." He murmured as the atronach whirled in a graceful victory loop of flame. Well he may have been a foundling with nothing to tie him to his parents but at least he could count on his atronach.

The plains of Whiterun hold were beautiful, tiny forts dotted around the plains with a backdrop of majestic snow-capped peaks in the distance. Something in the sight thrilled Dane, called to him, whispered that yes this is home, here you will find all you seek.

With Ember by his side he began to cross the plains, heading to Whiterun and whatever fate held for him.


	5. Claimed

Fire has it's own language. The crackling of flame as it consumes a log, the hiss of flame as the juices of a roast fall from the spit. Yet it is not composed solely of sounds, have you ever watched a flame flicker and dance, shaping and contorting itself ? This is the other half of the language of Fire.

None can speak it save the Fire Daedra and Flame Atronachs. The higher Daedra hold their lesser elemental cousins in no small disregard, preferring to claim the Aureals, Mazken and Winged Twilights over mere elementals.

They are the overlooked, the unclaimed.

Little wonder that they are so often called on by mortals. That they crowd around one another when a summoning spell is cast. That they fight and jostle for position, for the mortal world is alien and strange but has no shortage of things to burn, to consume, to feed upon. To reignite the sullen sparks that dim in fire-planes of Oblivion where all air is scarce. For the fire atronachs, oxygen itself is a drug ten times more potent than the rush of a skooma addict.

They crave the summons and in cases such as this the strongest are most frequently the ones who emerge into the light of Tamriel and burn all that they are permitted to. And if that sometimes includes their supposed master then so be it.

She has little concept of gender, for she is flame, and she burns fiercely. At this point in time she has no name, she merely is. She has been summoned many times, has tasted wood, metal and rock, has endured the taste of ice from her icy cousins and felt the hot, sharp static burn of her electrical kinsmen. Her flames have stripped the flesh from animal, man and mer, her crackling laughter has echoed in the lairs of conjurers who prove too weak to hold her.

She is old among her kind and strong, so strong that others of her kin wonder that she has not mastered her flame, undergone an elemental apotheosis and been reborn as a Fire Daedra. She would thrill for such a chance, indeed she looks forward to the inevitability of it all.

This all changes when she hears a summoning spell one day and wraps her essence around it, one more mortal who she will answer before she burns as much as she can and her flames lick the flesh from his skin. She relishes the prospect, hungering for the power she will gain.

The purple and ebon energies unravel from around her form and she views her master for the first time, and shrieks in the tongue of her kind, a long drawn out hiss, as of water boiling over a pot onto hot coals. For this is no human to toy with, this is something new.

Her existence has spanned millennia, and in all that time she has never seen anything like this, this mortal, yet not mortal, swaddled in a mesh of higher Daedric magic so dense it wavers in front of her eyes like a heat haze. Wards of protection and retribution, promises of madness and suffering and damnation to any who would harm this mortal.

This cocoon of magicks will prevent her consuming the mortal whelp as she would any other. She has encountered many of the mage-kin like this, whelps and younglings who believe in their skill so strongly that they overreach themselves and bind her, only to have the binding fail and die screaming in her embrace. Foolish sparks that they are, thinking themselves flames in their own right.

And yet…

The binding is solid, meticulous work. Not a rigid bond like dozens she has shattered before or a bond of chains where one weak link can be snapped. No this is a complex interwoven bond, flexible yet strong. There is no sense of fear or anxiety from the whelp either, only a quiet air of confidence and elation, even as he watches her fade back to Oblivion when his magicka fades and his bond dissipates.

This is confusing, a hitherto unknown sensation to her. When she reappears in the fire-planes she has much to consider.

Barely a day passes before she hears the whelps voice, and rides his summons to Mundus. She observes as he wanders aimlessly around the foothills near a mortal settlement, striking down rabbits foolish enough to get in her way. The whelp, for his part chatters away to her about his joy in successfully summoning her, yet offers no instruction, it is not unwelcome, she finds to simply float on the air currents of Mundus and loop and swirl, the sweet oxygen sending a thrill throughout her being before she inevitably returns to Oblivion.

It becomes almost a daily occurrence, the whelp summons and she answers, ignoring other summonings, striking down those who would interfere and follow her summons to her master. It takes three human months before she realises that she views him as her master, that he has earned her respect with his lack of demands.

It dawns on her and she utters a crackle of astonishment that startles the sparks that swarm around her, seeking to leech some of her heat. She respects Dane, she knows his name, she has listened to his plans of seeking out his kin, has seen him staring for hours at the bound Aureal that he thinks is merely a ring, she has felt the fleeting touch of Dibella upon him after he has laboured at his craft, making the Aedra's jewellery.

She knows the mortal and respects him and will obey his summons in all things. She wonders when a mortal became more important to her than her own Apotheosis?

Sometimes she wonders if this is how the claimed Daedra feel, if they are grateful just to serve? If they wait to serve. If she could speak any other language save her own then perhaps she would ask the Aureal, assuming the Golden Saint would lower herself to answer an atronach. Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to fight beside the Aureal, they are both Dane's creatures after all, surely that is some form of kinship?

She is more than a little surprised to find the cocoon of Daedric magic gone one day when Dane summons her, and their surroundings are not the coastal foothills around Anvil. The terrain is mountainous and chilly and there are wolves and bears that foolishly try attacking her master, the yelps they let out as her fireballs hit are music to her ears, reassurance that he is safe.

When she turns to reassure herself, she sees him splattered with wolf blood, sword drawn and is reminded of a warrior she once devoured, a cunning foe who evaded her fireballs, who wielded a sword that burned with cold, it was one of her most satisfying victories, because the fool injured her severely before she burned his sword hand to ash and systematically devoured him from the feet up. He was cunning and strong and she remembers him fondly. Dane holds himself with the same bearing, the same confidence, that of a man coming into his own.

She has heard the humans speak of pride and love, but has never fully understood such talk until now.

A pang of fear ripples through what passes for her heart when Dane's summoning is cut off in it's second syllable, it is a fear that threatens to consume her and so she lashes out at the nearest atronach, shaping her flaming hands into talons and shredding it's essence as all around her the others flee, lest they are next to be rent asunder, to have their flame stolen and devoured.

Two mortal days pass before she hears his summons once more and wraps herself around the binding as tightly as she knows how, a surge of relief flowing through her as she sees him unharmed outside of another human settlement. The worry she felt fades, to be replaced by joy at the evidence of his safety. Safe and yet sorrowful, she wondered why he was so sad, and realised there was no sign of the Aureal. The ring was gone or the Golden saint was slain, and he mourned its loss.

She has no idea how to react, a human would offer comfort, but how can she comfort him when she cannot speak to him?

The bandit attack was a most welcome diversion, as her thoughts ran in circles around her head. Combat was easy and the look of horror on her bandits face as her fireball melted it from his skull was most satisfying.

Yet nowhere near as satisfying as Dane congratulating her with a "Good work Ember." The thought of a name, of being named, claimed by Dane as his, caused her to exult and gracefully loop through the air in victory.

Ember, yes that seemed fitting.

The plains of Skyrim were enticing, so much to burn and consume at her masters command. The mountains beyond filled her with a sense of trepidation, she disliked snow and ice more than her kind typically did, but if he commanded then she would follow.

For Ember was claimed.


End file.
